


The Arrest of Effie Trinket

by BelleVictoire



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleVictoire/pseuds/BelleVictoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no way Haymitch would abandon their team, not with Katniss and Peeta in trouble.  Not willingly.  He’s fallen drunkenly into traffic, or been in a bar brawl, or been attacked by a mob angry at the reckless behaviour of his tributes (which has ruined the Quarter Quell!).  And now these peacekeepers are here to escort her to whichever hospital he’s lying in, injured or unconscious or…</p><p>It’s that last thought, the one Effie can barely bring herself to think, that overcomes her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Arrest of Effie Trinket

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are, of course, Suzanne Collins' - I just do horrible things to them for profit-free fun.

Effie doesn’t understand.

When the lightening strikes and the sky explodes, she can only stare at the screen - now empty except for the seal of Panem - and struggle to comprehend what, exactly, has just happened.  The viewing room has been plunged into chaos.  People have begun to crowd around her, demanding answers; Katniss is her tribute, therefore she must know what’s going on.  Effie can feel a panicky, unhinged laugh bubbling up inside her at the thought.  When has she ever known anything about what Katniss is planing?  Haymitch usually knows, though, or guesses at any rate.  Haymitch.

“Has anyone seen Abernathy?”  she demands, craning her neck in a futile effort to spot his distinctively disheveled figure in the confusion. She pushes her way through the clutch of guests pressing around her, ignoring their pleas for information with uncharacteristic rudeness. Behind her the television comes to life again with the familiar tones of Claudius Templesmith, entirely unruffled,  apologising for the technical difficulties.   It’s been barely a minute since the signal cut out. Technical difficulties aren’t really an explanation,  but Effie doesn’t care.  Haymitch’s absence is increasingly worrying.   It occurs to her its been over an hour since she’s seen the scruffy sot, and a very eventful hour at that.

They had been waiting for midnight, keeping vigil with the odd alliance on the beach.  Haymitch had been sitting next to her, sprawled untidily with his legs splayed and his arms thrown out across the back of the sofa.  She had had half a mind to say something about his poor posture. The constant aggravation of his fingertips brushing her shoulder and the press of his knee against her thigh was distracting her from focusing on the games.  Then - just as she had resolved to remind him that he was in the capitol, and ought to at least make an effort to behave with a little decorum - he had excused himself to get a drink. Effie had felt oddly disappointed at his removal, which was ridiculous, because wasn’t that what she had wanted anyway?

She hadn’t seen Haymitch since.  The more she thinks about it,  the more Effie recognizes how unusual his prolonged absence is.  While he may have been delayed - waylaid by a potential sponsor or caught up in conversation with one of the other guests - he should have returned by the time the tributes set out for the tree.  He should have been with her when things began to fall apart.

She sweeps the room one last time,  but that only confirms her suspicions: Haymitch has gone.

Effie maneuvers her way through the crush and out into the hall.  She reasons with herself that he’s probably gone back to the training centre, or has fallen completely off the wagon and is now holed up in some bar.  She has almost managed to convince herself of those possibilities by the time she steps out of the elevator, just as a unit of peacekeepers enter the lobby.  

The squad leader spots her immediately, “Euphemia Trinket?”

Suddenly, remaining upright is taking all her concentration and she can only manage a nod in response.

“You are to come with us.”

With those words, her worst fears are confirmed.   There is no way Haymitch would abandon their team, not with Katniss and Peeta in trouble.  Not willingly.  He’s fallen drunkenly into traffic, or been in a bar brawl, or been attacked by a mob angry at the reckless behaviour of his tributes which has ruined the Quarter Quell.  And now these peacekeepers are here to escort her to whichever hospital he’s lying in, injured or unconscious or…

It’s that last thought, the one she can barely bring herself to think, that overcomes her. She chokes out a strangled moan and begins to topple, her feet in their vertiginous heels giving out from under her.

One of the peacekeepers grabs her as she stumbles, and she finds herself being manhandled out of the building and into a waiting van.  For once she is too distressed to complain at the rough treatment.

As the van begins to move she begs the peacekeepers to tell her where he is, what has happened.  They remain impassive and silent as avoxes, and she thinks he must be dead, or nearly, if they refuse to ease her wretchedness with even a hint. She sobs his name over and over again.

Effie actually hears the blow before she feels it.  The crack of a gloved fist on tender skin is brutally loud in the close confines of the van, then in an instant the side of her face explodes into pain the likes of which she has never before felt, leaving her gasping and dizzy.

“Shut it,”  The lead peacekeeper demands dispassionately.  “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

As she tastes the coppery trickle of blood seeping from her split lip, Effie Trinket begins to realize that something has gone unimaginably wrong.


End file.
